


Bad Day

by NavyLjos



Category: Spider-Man - All Media Types
Genre: Gen, This Was Supposed to be Cute and Fluffy, Whump, but then petet wouldnt cooperate, tags to be added as they become relevant
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-10
Updated: 2018-08-17
Packaged: 2019-06-25 14:01:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,793
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15642213
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NavyLjos/pseuds/NavyLjos
Summary: Peter makes some bad decisions.





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm terrible at naming things, but honestly I think the working title I had for this fic works so I'm sticking with it.

Today was not a good day. Not that any given day in Peter’s life could be described as ‘good’, but today, in particular, was so not good, that he might even go as far as to call it bad.

He was stood on a roof bleeding. Badly. He had been shot, stabbed and thrown through several walls. On top of that, he was panting hard in some desperate attempt to cool himself off - sweating in the sweltering heat as the midday summer sun mocked him; shrouding everything in a blinding golden-white hue. Painting the world to look almost deceivingly happy, although eerily off-kilter.

He felt sick. Everything was spinning, knocking him off balance. He tried to stay upright, but the ground would not stay still long enough for him to find his footing. He felt himself stumble before being pulled down onto the concrete.

It was becoming harder and harder to breathe as time went on. Peter felt like he was a child again; having an asthma attack. Gasping for air whilst his heart thumped deafeningly in his chest and his head throbbed. Clumsily, he pulled his mask up over his nose. There wasn't even a slight breeze, but the feeling of his skin free from the sweaty confines of his suit was utterly amazing.

He wanted desperately to just rip his mask off, to strip down completely, but he knew he couldn’t (if not because he’s in public, then because moving was agonizing). His limbs felt hot and heavy and he was fairly certain his heart shouldn’t be beating that quickly, but there was nothing he could do. 

Sirens sounded somewhere in the distance, but Peter couldn’t care less. His consciousness had started ebbing away. He tried desperately to fight it, but it was no use. His mind was all over the place with one constant thread running through his thoughts: He was going to die. Peter had never been so certain of anything in his life. Mentally, he apologized to Aunt May, to all his friends (both in and out of costume) and most of all, to Uncle Ben. Part of him felt that, by accepting he was going to die, he had given up and that, by giving up, he was disappointing Uncle Ben.

Peter hated this. Hated that there was nothing he could do. He wished he had been stronger, that he had been smarter, that if only he had been better he wouldn't have been in this situation. He should have taken the morning off to heal from the previous night. He should have gone to the cinema with MJ and Harry or spent the morning with Aunt May. He should have stopped when he got the stab wound, or even when he got shot. He should have got himself patched up instead of ignoring the wounds. “They’ll heal” he had told himself after webbing over them; like he had been told many times before: it’s that attitude that will get him killed. Even in his current state of mind, the statement was not lost on him.

Peter let his eyes fall closed, dragging him into the depths of oblivion as he barely managed to utter what he was convinced were his last words.

“I’m sorry.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This whole story started because I wanted to create a scene based around the dichotomy of something bad happening during the day and kind of snowballed from there, so even I don't know where this is going, but I can guarantee that there will be more!


	2. Chapter 2

Peter awoke to the distant sound of beeping and people talking. His mind was hazy, but he was certain he should be dead. He warily opened his eyes only to be met with a garish white light. He flinched backward into what he assumes is a pillow (although some part of his brain, obviously running off the assumption he was dead, supplied him with ‘cloud’). His limbs felt heavy and numb, meaning he was almost definitely drugged but most importantly, alive.

He opened his eyes again, this time anticipating the brightness. Once he had adjusted to the light, he noted that it was nowhere near as bright as it first appeared. In fact, the ceiling lights weren’t even the brightest source of light in this room - that was the large, wall-mounted TV playing quietly. Obviously the source of the voices he heard earlier.

The room itself looked like a bedroom. Whilst it was way bigger than his own, it wasn't particularly massive. The whole room was decorated in varying shades of white and off-white, giving it a hospital-like aesthetic.

On the left sat an IV stand, a nightstand, and a large, comfortable looking chair. The nightstand had an empty bowl on it, suggesting someone had been here - but how long ago was anyone’s guess. There was a sizable window, but the curtains made it impossible to tell what time of day it was. To the right sat a wide array of medical machinery, displaying all kinds of information - none of it he could quite grasp in his current mindset. There was also a door that had been left ajar, although Peter couldn’t see anything through it.

The whole situation made him feel extremely exposed and uneasy. He had no idea where he was and whoever had brought him here had definitely seen his face. The latter part was what worried him the most. Taking a deep breath, he decided his best bet was to escape.

Whatever drugs he had been sedated with seemed to be fading from his system, since he no longer felt as numb and his head was pounding. His senses were registering everything much better, helping him to figure out his surroundings easier. In the distance, He could hear traffic, not far away, but rather far below. From the lights and the look of the room, it was likely he was in some kind of large building instead of some evil floating fortress. This meant his escape would be exponentially easier.

Carefully, he pulled himself into a sitting position, wincing in pain from the numerous injuries that hadn't healed yet. As agonizing as it was, Peter was relieved: if his injuries hadn’t completely healed then he couldn't have been here long. Just as he was about to pull the IV out of his arm, a voice echoed around the room.

“I would not advise that course of action.”

Jumping at the sound, Peter searched the room frantically, but he couldn’t figure out where the voice had come from. Scared but determined not to let it show, he decided to sass the strange voice.

“And I wouldn’t advise the X-men to wear yellow jumpsuits, but we all know how that turned out.”

With that, he pulled the IV out and cringed at the size of the needle. He was half expecting an alarm to sound or something, but to his surprise there was nothing. Then, just as he was about to jump off the bed when the door swung fully open to reveal Clint Fucking Barton of the mother-fucking Avengers holding an overflowing bowl of popcorn and a mug of something Peter assumed was hot chocolate, judging by the whipped cream and marshmallows.

The Avenger groaned almost the second he laid eyes on Peter. 

“I leave the room for five minutes,” he said, walking around the bed to put his things on the coffee table, “why, for the love of god, do you choose then to wake up?”

“Um” was all Peter, a true master of eloquence, could say.

“J.A.R.V.I.S,” he called to the ceiling, grabbing a handful of popcorn, “Why didn’t you tell me he was up?”

“I did sir,” the voice replied, “but you ignored me.”

A small part of Peter felt sorry for the voice in the ceiling, it seemed no one listened to him.

“Still,” he insisted around a mouthful of popcorn, “you could’ve told me.” 

Peter could imagine the look the voice was probably giving him, it was probably identical to the one he was currently giving the older man.

“What?” Clint shoved even more popcorn into his mouth as he spoke, ignoring the bits that dropped onto the floor. 

Peter merely shook his head in response, but couldn’t help a small smile worming its way onto his face. He was a huge fan of Hawkeye - following him in the news and checking in on his social media from time to time, but Peter had never imagined he would ever meet him out of costume and what's more, he had never imagined Hawkeye would be such a dork.

Clint gave a small smile in return before it immediately fell.

“Why is your IV out?” He questioned, heading back around the bed towards Peter.

Peter backed up in response. He wanted to make a break for it, but Hawkeye must have realized because he called to JARVIS to lock the door.

Suddenly, Peter’s heart was going a thousand miles-per-hour. He was trapped. Fear gripped at his throat as he continued to back away from the Avenger. The logical part of his brain knew Clint wasn’t going to hurt him, but the less rational part of his brain was screaming at him - drowning out all other thoughts.

Clint made to grab him, but his spider-sense kicked in and his reflexes landed him halfway up the wall before Clint could even make contact. Desperately, he scrambled further up the wall, trying to find any means of escape.

Belatedly, he noticed that he didn't have his web shooters, which made his escape intrinsically more difficult, but he wasn't going to let that stop him. With a deep, steadying breath, Peter leaped towards the window. 

Cussing under his breath, Hawkeye a quick grab for the gear he had chucked under the seat. 

Three arrows sped past Peter's head, digging into the wall in front of him, but he didn't stop, instead, he launched himself across the room and onto the opposite wall. 

Peter continued to leap around the room as arrows continued to swarm him. He managed to pass by the window close enough to rip the curtains from it, revealing the breathtaking site that was the late-night New York skyline.

The window itself took a punch, a swinging kick and two arrows he had skillfully dodged to break, but once he had broken it a whole myriad of problems presented themselves. He had no idea how he was going to get anywhere without his web shooters, and even if he did, he didn't have a mask and what’s more, the Avengers had seen his face, they knew who he was, so he could never return to his normal life or they’d be able to track him down. Mentally, he squashed down his panic, he could deal with that later when he was safe. 

He leaped onto the windowsill, barely managing to avoid another one of Hawkeye’s arrows, and made to leave only to come face-to-face with Iron Man’s repulsor - raised and ready to fire.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not as happy with this chapter as I amthe first, but I am really enjoying writing this story! 
> 
> Also I've been procrastinating so much on everything so sorry I'm advanced for what will undoubtedly be a long wait for the next chapter.


End file.
